No Greater Glory

by Cindy Nord

  She turned her scrutiny to the windows that embraced the front door. The filthy glass dulled the morning light as if somehow sensing the gloom that had befallen her world. She swallowed against the anger percolating upward. Like Shapinsay’s sprawling grounds, her home’s downstairs reeked of Yankee. Emaline shoved aside her resentment and remembered her objective just as the front door swung open. The surgeon stepped inside and offered her a warm greeting as he unbuttoned his great coat.

  “Good morning,” she replied, impatience flooding through her as she fought against the urge to deny him Euley’s secret. She pressed her lips together and waited while he draped his heavy outerwear across a sturdy nail pounded into the wall beside a pair of entwining swans. “If I may, Doctor Evans, I would like to discuss a matter of great importance with you.”

  He reached for her arm and guided her into the sitting room. “Certainly, dear. Let me make a few notes, though, before I begin working. We’ll talk for a moment after that, if you’d like.” He settled at his desk, reaching for a ledger, his pen and an inkwell.

  While he attended to his bookkeeping, Emaline lowered to a chair beside him, her crinoline skirts collapsing into a whoosh of bright Chinese silk. Swathed from head to toe in the trappings of privilege, she became acutely conscious of the fact that she looked out of place amid the suffering around her. That she should feel such ignominy pounding through her while sitting in her own home only intensified Emaline’s frustrations.

  A soldier sidled up to them and placed a steaming cup of coffee before the surgeon. The man nodded his gratitude and continued with his notes.

  The private turned her way. “May I bring you a cup, Mrs. McDaniels?”

  “No, thank you,” she said, offering a tight smile.

  He nodded, took the reports from the doctor, then scurried off.

  Orderlies moved about the room, sliding emptied chamber pots under the cots of rousing patients, refilling buckets with fresh water, and coaxing coals into flames inside the fireplace to abolish the bite of winter.

  A small pile of rubble resting near the hearth caught Emaline’s eye and she swept her vision upward. A gaping spot on the ceiling revealed where expensive rococo plaster used to cling. She clenched her jaw and scanned the built-in beaufats flanking the ornate chimneybreast. A jumbled collection of soldiers’ personal items claimed every shelf.

  A fresh wave of despair rolled over her.

  “So tell me,” the doctor said, drawing her attention. He laid aside his pen and clasped his hands over his wide girth. “What’s so urgent that demands you greet me at the door this morning?” A gentle smile lifted his well-manicured mustache.

  “Yes, well…” Emaline paused, clasping her hands tightly together in her lap. “I would like to suggest a process that might help lower your escalating infection rate.”

  Interest lifted his craggy features. “My dear, anything that could actually do that would be a Godsend.” He scooted his chair back a few more inches to face her, and crossed his legs, the scuffed toe of his brown brogan pointing her way. He took a sip of coffee and returned the cup to his desk. “Go on, madam. I’m listening. What do you think might slow my pace of infection?”

  Emaline hesitated, her fingers intertwining. A knuckle cracked.

  He’s not the colonel. Just tell him.

  “Well…I believe you should boil your instruments.”

  The surgeon’s forehead wrinkled as one bushy eyebrow shot upward. “Boil my instruments? You mean, like Doctor Goldsmith’s theory.” He paused for a moment and raised his right hand, propping his chin on his folded fingers. “Yes, come to think of it, I have read his papers. If I remember correctly, he states inflammatory mischief and febrile disturbances following an injury are due to the influx of poisoning, decomposing blood.”

  Emaline’s own brow puckered. She had no idea what the good doctor had just spouted, but she nodded nonetheless. “Over the years, we’ve utilized the procedure at Shapinsay on our servant population. I have personally seen wounds treated with implements boiled beforehand remain purulent-free. I’m not sure why, but the boiling does seem to help.”

  His lips pursed. A moment later, his hand dropped to the desk. He toyed with the handle of his coffee cup. “Amputation wounds are not simple field scrapes, Mrs. McDaniels. They require long and continued suppuration. In this case, laudable pus is acceptable. The lesser of two evils, if you will. Otherwise, patients might be dying of sepsis inside, while we thought they had healed. Because of that, we must allow miasm on putrified flesh. Acknowledging ooze is one thing, my dear, but boiling our instruments?” He shook his head. “We simply don’t have time, I’m afraid. Ordinarily, we’re an army on the move, and doing so would be ludicrous even under the best of circumstances.”

  “I understand. But, if I may, Doctor—”

  “Please, my dear, call me Doc.” He clasped his hands across his belly again and chuckled. “Everyone else does.”

  Emaline nodded. “All right. Then Doc, would you object to me boiling things while you’re at Shapinsay?”

  He tugged at his whiskers for a moment before releasing another breath on a pondering sigh. “I have no objections to you including your procedure, if you so desire. And I’ll note your suggestion and generous offer of time in my daily report to the colonel.” He reached for his journal and pen just as Emaline’s toes squeezed into a tight curl inside her leather morning shoes.

  Her eyes widened. “W-why does he need to know? I’m sharing this with you, Doc. Not him.”

  “I report everything to Colonel Cutteridge, my dear. He is in charge, you know.” Another laugh followed as he leaned forward to scribble a few lines in the journal before flipping the booklet closed. “But you know, this might prove valuable. At least while we’re camped here. And as I mentioned before, I can certainly use all the help I can get.”

  Emaline stood, her silk dress rustling like willows in the wind. With a barely perceptible and much-practiced heel tap, she settled her hoops once more around her. She bit her lower lip, fighting the anger pulsing through her at the mere mention of the colonel’s name. She didn’t want him to think she’d offered the remedy because he’d been giving her the blasted vouchers. Mumbling a hasty thank you, she whisked from the room. Three medical stewards stood near the front door, and she ordered them outside to the laundry shed to haul back one of her large cauldrons. Thirty minutes later, with boiling pot in place over the fire, Emaline put the primitive medicinal secret into practice.

  For nearly an hour, she and Euley gathered and cleaned all the medical instruments in the house before moving on to other tasks. Emaline did not think beyond the repetition of her chores. Day waned into night. Chores were ticked off her list, and the last thing she did was sit beside her patients and write letters home for them. They offered heartfelt thank you’s, some wiping away tears. She slipped their missives into envelopes and sealed them. The gratitude that radiated from their eyes made hers well with moisture and validated the time she’d spent with them. They were mere boys, after all. Most of them scared and hurt and far from home.

  And for a while, she almost forgot they were Yankees.

  Five days later, the arrival of a dozen more patients cramped the workspace inside the makeshift hospital. One more injured soldier, and the medical staff would have to begin stacking cots on top of one another. Emaline decided to abandon the decorum of crinoline hoops in favor of simple work dresses with several underslips in order to move about without disturbing the wounded.

  She stood before the fireplace in the dining room; a bucket propped on her hip. Upending the container, Emaline tumbled the bloodied instruments Doc had used for the morning’s surgeries into the cauldron of bubbling water. Scalding droplets splashed across her wrist and she recoiled, dropping the wooden pail. She hissed through clenched teeth and buried her hand in her apron.

  A convalescing soldier resting on a nearby cot reached down and stopped the bucket’s awkward wobble. “You all right, Mrs. McDan
iels?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m fine.” She shook her hand and inspected the damage. “I was just startled, that’s all.” A red blotch suffused her skin near the knuckle on her thumb, forcing a sigh from her. She knew better than to plop items into boiling water. Fatigue caused her to be careless. Euley’s salve would prevent a blister, but until she could find time to retrieve some, she’d just have to cope with the sting. A rush of tears swelled upward, and she swallowed to stifle them. The unrelenting compulsion to cry was certainly far more than a splotch on her hand required.

  The soldier lifted the bucket, and Emaline folded her fingers around the sodden rope handle, anchoring her smile into place.

  A blush skimmed the man’s face. “I sure do thank you for your kindness, ma’am. We all do.”

  She nodded, mumbled a hasty thank you, and then retraced her steps across the room, shaking her hand to dissipate the pain. More comfortable following an established routine, she pushed past the canvas-covered Steinway to reach another patient.

  The pail in her hand thumped to the top of the piano. It seemed an eternity ago since she’d last entertained guests with classical selections of Liszt or Beethoven. Emaline stifled a mocking laugh. Leaning over, she rested her hand across the forehead of an unconscious soldier. The boy’s fever had broken. Her eyes slipped shut. This one might actually live to return home.

  Muffled words reached her from the hallway and she straightened, peering around the heavy piano. Two officers had entered the house. The man the doctor called Major Neale stepped in first. When he shifted, the solid image of Colonel Cutteridge filled her vision. Emaline’s breath caught. Her heart lurched. She’d not seen the colonel in several days, and his unexpected appearance sent a shiver through her. She squelched the preposterous reaction to the man and leaned forward to listen.

  “…whole of Burnside’s army should be in Falmouth next week,” Cutteridge stated.

  “Everyone?”

  “Yep. Five corps, nineteen divisions. Not counting artillery and the remaining cavalry units.”

  The major’s forehead crinkled. “What about the engineers?”

  “They should arrive sometime next week and begin laying pontoons. Burnside says he wants to press hard on Fredericksburg before the Rebs have a chance to consolidate their strength.”

  “Press hard? Hell, we’ve been sitting here waiting for nearly two weeks.”

  “I know, but Burnside told General Halleck that moving down from Culpepper with a hundred and thirty thousand men takes time. Once the city falls, though, it’ll be an easy walk to Richmond.”

  Emaline gasped. They’re planning to attack the city. The colonel swung toward the parlor and spotted her. His lips pulled taut. Slowly, she straightened and smoothed her hand down the front of her dress. Her chin lifted as she purposefully walked toward him.

  Dismissing the major with a curt nod, Emaline turned and faced the colonel. “If you’ll kindly step aside, I’ll go tend to your soldiers bleeding to death in my parlor. Thankfully, they’ll be spared having to face the dangerous horde of civilians waiting for you all in Fredericksburg.” The tense set of his mouth faded into a smirk. He took a full step backward and motioned for her to proceed.

  Emaline pushed between the two men, shaking her right hand at her side to relieve the sting of the blister as she turned the corner.

  Captain Brennen Benedict dropped the missive into the fire. His long sigh filled the clearing. A hundred and fifty Yanks protected the supply line near Freeman’s Ford. Which meant his men couldn’t steal the much-needed rifles and ammunition heaped inside the Federal railcars…at least not tonight.

  Sonofabitch.

  “We’ll wait,” he told the young courier. “Tell them to come back.” The private issued a hasty salute, swept into the saddle, and headed into the darkness to deliver the message to his comrades concealed along the ridgeline above Warrenton Springs.

  A biting wind cut through Brennen as he raked a hand through his hanks of dirty brown hair. He hadn’t had a decent cut in more than a year. Hell’s fire, he hadn’t had anything decent in more than a year. He pulled the tattered slouch hat into place atop his head. His fingers looped around the lanyard that fell down the front of his jacket and he gave it a hard tug.

  Bastards. No matter what he did, the bluebellies kept coming.

  His lips compressed. He was moving ever closer to home and ever closer to the memories of those glorious years before the war when foolish indulgences and cognac flowed faster than his goddamned coins did at the gaming tables in Richmond. Since riding in from the valley a month before with the rest of Stonewall’s cavalry, one powerful image superseded all others in his mind: Emaline. Surely to God, his sister had evacuated to the safety of Richmond as she’d promised. Less than a hundred miles lay between him and Shapinsay—and the damn Federals now crawled all over that side of the river. But Em promised she’d go. His worry eased back a peg.

  Popping musket fire resounded through the eerie stillness and caught his thoughts. The Federals had trigger-happy fingers and they’d sooner shoot at their own damn shadows than think.

  Cowards.

  Frigid air permeated his faded gray overcoat. He stared down at the thin wisps of black smoke curling around an iron pot slung over the fire. Boiled rice with sugar sauce for supper again—the tangy sweetness clung in nauseating layers and aggravated the empty ache in his gut. Brennen swallowed back the bile and reached over to check his Sharps, making certain the carbine’s scabbard still held secure to the side of the Grimsley saddle. He dropped his hand, slipped cold fingers over the even colder metal of his saber, and allowed a lopsided smirk to lift his lips. He’d appropriated the sword earlier this year from some dead Yank over near Ball’s Bluff. The threaded leather grip was always at the ready now along with the dead officer’s holstered Adams resting on Brennen’s right hip.

  Dangerous work, this scouting business. When the Falmouth Guard first joined ranks with the Army of Northern Virginia, Brennen never dreamed they’d all be assigned as scouts. He knew the area better than most so command fell to him. He enforced discipline in the ranks and led his men with cool determination. Each mission—striking fast, withdrawing quietly. His methods became a calling card abhorred by the Federals, and within months the home guard earned the moniker Gray Ghosts. A smile cracked his features. He liked their signature nickname. He also liked risk-taking and the secrecy and raiding Yankee outposts and wagon trains, tearing up rail tracks, and ripping out Federal telegraph lines. Such exploits gave him the spark he needed in his otherwise gone-to-hell life. Besides, scouting for General Jackson kept him and his boys from mundane camp tasks and picket duty. Pride zipped through Brennen and shoved aside his usual reserve. In fact, Yank secrets uncovered by his men had made the difference in more than a few battles.

  He leaned sideways and checked the girth strap on his saddle to make sure it was still tight. His smirk widened as he recalled the personal satisfaction of capturing a Union general over near Ox Hill last week. The fact that the bastard had been buried between some whore’s legs at the time only enhanced the account. Better yet, the saddlebag recovered alongside the buffoon held a treasure trove of information about Union troop movements. Of course, the wench who’d shared details of her upcoming tryst had been well-compensated—and, at her eager insistence, Brennen even managed to find the time needed to finish what that bluebellied buffoon had begun.

  The recollection stirred up a chuckle as the aroma of freshly brewed coffee swirled in the breeze around him. Brennen wrapped his fingers around a cup his sergeant had thrust into his hand. Nodding thanks, he raised the tin to his lips. The caustic brew burned all the way down his throat but managed to silence the gnawing hunger.

  “Think we can stop ’em, Cap’n?” his lanky right-hand man asked, sloshing coffee into his own cup. A hiss filled the night as the brew splattered on the gloveless fingers. He swiped his grubby hand down an even grubbier pant leg.

  Brennen nodded. �
��Hope so. We’ll need to cut their ammunition supply to slow them down. That’ll give General Jackson the time he needs to get to Gordonsville first. If the Confederacy loses Shenandoah Valley, we lose our food supply.”

  He scanned his men across the clearing. Fatigue etched deep lines in each face. Loyalty aside, his Ghosts were hungry now and dog-tired from being on the move. Their horses hadn’t been unsaddled in three days. But they couldn’t rest—not just yet. When the others returned, they’d grab a quick bite of the boiled rice, then follow the train southward, hoping for another opportunity to strike.

  And they’d find one—it was only a matter of time. Brennen’s smirk dissolved, and his lips compressed into a tight line. Once he’d been considered the best-dressed gambler in Richmond, but those times were gone. His commitment to the Gray Ghosts now filled the void.

  And nobody would rein them in—not as long as he drew breath.

  Nobody.

  Dead tired from being on her feet all day, Emaline rested her forehead against the doorframe. A moment later, she reached for her heavy cape and draped it across her shoulders. Corded loops easily slipped over metal toggles to secure the garment. When the doctor suggested she take some fresh air, she welcomed the opportunity for a break from the pain and suffering of the soldiers.

  A brittle wind scoured her face as Emaline eased open the front door. Snuggling into the folds of the woolen cape, she trudged onto the veranda. A pungent whiff of fried mutton wafted over her as flickering lights poked like pinpricks through the ebony canvas.

  Now they’re enjoying my sheep.

  Each new day she scrambled to keep up with her losses, recording what she could in the ledgers. And each new day, her stack of Yankee vouchers grew. She stared at the campfires. Amber reflections, a myriad dancing forms of shadows and lights, flickered over an endless sea of white canvas.